Cruor Draconis
by Alancir
Summary: After the imprisonment of his father, Draco Malfoy faces a series of challenges that would make even someone born and bred to be a Death Eater squirm. One of the more daunting ones is growing up. Some DracoHermione in later chapters.


**Disclaimer:**

I own the plot, a few half-empty whisky bottles (mine!) and a nice collection of personality disorders (anyone willing can have them). Anyone else belongs does not. JKR, her publishers and the man on the moon are a good bet.

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**Chapter 1: Silver and Lead**

Draco Malfoy entered his fathers study, not without considerable apprehension. Whatever his father had summoned him for, he had an inkling it was not going to be pleasant; it rarely was, and present circumstances were not conductive to an exception. No one was there yet, which was hardly a surprise; Lucius always seemed to derive particular pleasure from making him uncomfortable by making him wait. Standing on what he thought of as 'the wrong side of the desk', he suppressed an urge to fidget - one of the many things a Malfoy simply did not do.

Lucius was nothing if not fastidious when it came to his working habits, or anything else for that matter, and the gleaming surface of the oversized oaken desk was virtually empty - a silver ink stand, a few neatly organised blank rolls of parchment, a multi-faceted crystal paperweight Draco knew to be a sneakoscope charmed to work for his father only and two leather-bound books. One was a tattered grimoire titled _'The Black Arts of the Black Continent_', the other a slim octavo written in dark brown ink, currently open and displaying the chapter title _'Rivers of Blood: Ancient Curses Rediscovered_.'

He pondered taking a closer look - father encouraged him to collect information, to always be prepared for any eventualities, despite scolding him whenever he actually caught his son exercising this fine Slytherin trait - but Lucius chose this moment to enter. Draco straightened imperceptibly and willed his expression to one of polite interest as his father seated himself on the only chair in the room, resting his snake-headed cane on the edge of the desk.

"Draco," he began tersely.

"As you are very well aware, the climate within the magical community took a decided turn for the worse after the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries." That was quite an understatement, considering the man in front of him faced a trial that would undoubtedly conclude with a lengthy sentence in Azkaban for him. Despite his name, influence and the most powerful associates Malfoy money could buy, the prospects were anything but rosy.

"Should I be unable to take care of our affairs, this responsibility will fall to you. I had hoped not to involve you directly in our Lords business before you completed your studies, but I am confident that you will be - adequate."

The highest praise he had ever received from him, but Draco could not derive any pleasure from it. In fact, he felt as if his stomach had turned into lead. Like the crude bracelet that temporarily stripped Lucius of his ability to perform magic, signifying the impotence and shame that had befallen the Malfoy house. He merely nodded, not trusting his voice and unwilling to show the whole extent of his trepidation.

"Your mother will take care of the manor and the estate," Lucius continued, "and of any social obligations we still have. Naturally, I expect you to assist her in these matters whenever required. More importantly, you will represent me and the family in Death Eater gatherings. Serve well, and you may receive the honour of becoming the youngest member of our select circle."

His tone became even more sombre as he continued,

"Obey the Dark Lords orders as you would obey mine, without question. In fact, be more diligent, for he does not tolerate fools."

Having admonished Draco thus, he removed the Malfoy signet ring and laid it on the desk, gingerly rubbing the finger it vacated - an uncommon gesture in a man who prided himself on never showing anything but quiet confidence, lest of all unease. He took a glance at his silver pocket watch and turned to his son once again.

"My reprieve will end shortly. Do you have any questions?"

Draco licked his lips, considering which of the myriad of questions running through his mind he should voice, before all but blurting out: "Will you be all right, father?"

He regretted asking immediately when a slight frown appeared on Lucius' forehead. Draco flinched slightly, expecting a stern reproof, but it was too late. Malfoys did not stammer, nor did they apologise.

"That is something you have no control over, and therefore nothing you should concern yourself with. Really, boy, I thought I had taught you better."

After a moment of uneasy silence, his expression softened somewhat and he added, "Incidentally, it would not do for an acting head of the Malfoy household to humiliate himself by the way of poor quidditch performance. I suggest you use your new access to my private Gringotts vault to equip yourself with a superior broom, since you apparently cannot win on talent alone." Lucius arose, picking up the books from the desk, and walked over to his son. He tentatively raised a hand, as if to grasp Draco's shoulder. However, before he could complete the motion, the dull surface of his bracelet shimmered briefly. With a curt nod, he was gone - presumably taken straight to Azkaban.

Draco slumped onto the high-backed leather chair, knocking his fathers cane over in the process. He took up the ring, and looked closely at the finely sculpted snake that encircled the relief of the Malfoy family crest. It hissed softly, emerald eyes boring into him suspiciously. The ring felt heavier than such a delicate piece of jewelry had any right to. He slipped it on, before pointing his wand at the study door and whispering "Colloportus".

He needed several minutes to regain clear vision and something approaching a regular breathing pattern, but he did not allow any tears to fall.

It was a glorious late summer afternoon at the manor, weeping willows swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Draco had flown until he had lost track of time, all cares temporarily forgotten in the heavenly sensation that was flying. This was bliss; not the fiercely competitive quidditch - much as he appreciated that - but pure, unadulterated freedom when nothing mattered except the feeling of wind in his hair, the warmth of the sun and the scent of freshly cut grass as he soared along performing maneuvers that would astound anyone who had seen him on the quidditch pitch. Not that he played badly, far from it, but he tended to think too hard about out-playing the opposition, and constant second-guessing stripped him of the effortless grace that made his lone flights so exhilarating. Knowing that Potter, the only serious competition at Hogwarts when it came to flying, seemed unencumbered by the expectations of his team and house - he positively thrived on the pressure by the looks of it - did not exactly help either.

Draco reclined under an ancient oak tree, which had been one of his favourite place for as long as he could remember, and a refuge when the manor became stifling and oppressive. He withdrew a brand new copy of _Which Broomstick _from his robes. In a sudden fit of nostalgia, he stroked his trusty Nimbus 2001.

"Sorry old chap, but I need a broom with a little more kick to it. I will remember you fondly though"

He jumped a little when he became conscious of what he was doing. Although he had never encountered a rule stating that Malfoys did not talk to their brooms, he assumed there would be one. Especially in the light of Parkinson's giggly insinuations that boys emotional attachment to their broomsticks was 'oh so symbolic'. As to what conclusions she would draw from his eagerness to replace his perfectly good broomstick with something having, as he had phrased it, 'more kick to it' - well, he certainly did not want to go there. Girls.

Scowling slightly, he flicked through the review section of _Which Broomstick_ and looked for a possible replacement.

_'The Firebolt is still the standard by which every competitive broomstick is measured, having lost none of its edge since...' _Certainly not. He would never buy anything that had been defiled by Potter and practically worshipped by his annoying sycophants.

_'A dependable, rock-solid contender, the Cleansweep 11 is a sensible and affordable...' _A Malfoy would not buy anything affordable to the unwashed masses. Besides, didn't the Weasel fly one? He most certainly did not want a broom that might attract rodents, the nasty things might gnaw on it. Anyway, it was well known that Cleansweeps were for plebeians.

'Most experts agree that the vaunted Nimbus line is facing stagnation, or even decline, as their latest model...' Well, so much for natural progression.

Irritated, he turned another page. And fell in love.

Elegant, sleek lines that hinted at phenomenal speed and agility. A slim handle merging seamlessly with a magnificient tail, made of the finest twigs imaginable and tapering off to a needle-sharp point. Made of a light wood he had not previously seen in broomsticks, with a silvery finish to it. Even the handsome young wizard in the advertisement on the next page spent more time ogling it than showing off in the more extravagant clothing available at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Draco let out a breath he had been unaware of holding and read the review.

_'The Quicksilver 01 left none of our testers unaffected, but opinion over the most innovative broom of the decade is more than divided. With performance comparable to the never surpassed Firebolt, this exotic specimen features two important deviations from standard broom design. The handle is made from the same birch tree as the twigs, which gives it unsurpassed responsiveness to the flyer's commands. The designers also eschewed giving it the traditional cylindrical shape, hollowing it out on the underside behind the grip, resulting in a crescent-shaped cross section to reduce weight and further improve its agility. While this beauty has all it takes to make any broomstick enthusiast's eyes gleam, the novel approach is not without its shortcomings. Birchwood is already considered too volatile to be used in broom handles by many, and the reduced mass means there is very little substance for braking and especially balancing charms to act on. This is less of a problem if the broom is kept in perfect condition and carefully trimmed to match the flyers physique, but doing so requires finesse, dedication and original twigs only supplied by Mercurio at an obscene price. Our testers reached conclusions from "The slickest thing since lubrication potions" to "Poncy, pretentious and wouldn't survive one good bludger hit". Definitely a work of art - but if I had that kind of money to spend on a broom, I'd rather get a firebolt and save myself the hassle. Flyer beware.'_

Draco could have sworn he saw one of the quotations change to '_I can't believe you actually wrote that down, Perkins. You're so dead!' _for an instant.

Draco immediately filled out the order form to have it delivered to Hogwarts. He did not mind the alleged drawbacks; he took good care of all his possessions and broom maintenance was something he actually enjoyed very much - performing the precise, calculated alterations was very satisfying, similar to preparing and brewing a difficult potion. And frankly, he would need something to occupy himself with away from the public eye anyway. The Golden Threesome was bound to give him a harder time than ever and make the most of his fathers incarceration; with only Professor Snape to look out for him, it would be a living nightmare. What a shame Umbridge was gone, especially in the light of his new responsibilities. His position in the Inquisitorial Squad would have provided an effective means of ensuring his privacy.

As he walked back to the manor for his last night at home, the gravity of his situation fully reasserted itself. Father had always guided him and ensured he would do the right things, and even then he had failed to make his family proud. No, the next year was not going to be easy.

Dinner was a subdued affair; neither Draco nor his mother Narcissa spoke much as they poked at the contents of their plates. The sturgeon, as exquisite as it was, tasted like ash on his tongue and he merely glared at the house elf , Canny if he remembered corectly, when she timidly enquired whether young master Draco would prefer another dish. She apologised profusely well into dessert before skimpering away, presumably to punish herself for the inappropriate intrusion.

After an uneasy silence, Narcissa picked up her wine glass and left for the music room without formally dismissing the table. Unsure whether he was permitted to retire, Draco remained seated while the house elves cleared the table. Draco sighed inaudibly as the menacing harmonies of Franz Liszt's _Hamlet_ filled the room; he did not exactly look forward to another quiz about Liszt's superiority to muggle composers that was sure to follow. Neither he nor Lucius - he felt a bitter pang of anxiety at the thought of his father - truly appreciated music the way his mother did, but she had insisted to round off his education by exposing him to varied aspects of wizarding culture. This night, however, she had apparently forgotten about him as he heard her leave for her own rooms shortly after the last note faded into silence.

After his evening shower, he retired to his bedroom and divested himself of his robes before slipping under the covers in his magnificent four-poster bed. The canopy was enchanted to look like the night sky, the constellation of draco outshining all others - a not so subtle reminder of what was expected from him as a scion of two of the most powerful and respected wizarding families. Or what had been two of the most respected wizarding families, he reminded himself gloomily as he remembered that the stars of Draco were actually quite faint in reality. And fading further, if he recalled his astronomy lessons correctly.

Chiding himself for his maudlin ponderings, he fell asleep

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**Authors notes:** My first attempt at writing fanfic. Reviews would be very much appreciated, especially if they contain constructive criticism. Hope you enjoyed it, this will continue through the entire sixth year.Flamers who fail to be witty will be subjected to all operas written by Richard Wagner, simultaneously. 


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